2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees Read online

  “You’re not going like that, are you?” said Malcolm as he wandered onto the patio in jeans and T-shirt.

  “I was going to, yes,” I replied. “Is it a bit too smart?”

  “Well, it’s up to you, but as you can see we don’t dress up for this.”

  Almost on cue, Anne appeared looking neat and tidy, but still distinctly informal.

  “I think I’ll go and slip into something more comfortable,” I said.

  Malcolm and Anne knew the form for these things as well as anyone. Apart from having been to about fifteen in a row, they were also on the village social committee. If I wanted to learn how to become a part of the local community, then I could do worse than have Malcolm and Anne as my teachers. They had done an incredible job. They had made it their business to get to know absolutely everyone in the village, they organised events, and poor old Malcolm, who had left Britain to escape a life of accountancy, had ended up as honorary treasurer of the social committee.

  It was only a twenty-minute walk to the village hall, but I was glad I’d ditched the suit. Malcolm and Anne lived halfway up one side of the valley, and our destination was at the top of the other. The inclines were surprisingly steep and I’d broken into a sweat by the time we were making our final approaches. I could see the village hall ahead, a modern building with big glass windows, a disproportionately large edifice for somewhere with just over a hundred people.

  “How come we’ve got a building that big?” I asked. “Given that the village doesn’t even have a shop or a bar.”

  “It’s just the French system,” said Anne. “All villages have to have village halls.”

  “It started as a bureaucratic thing,” said Malcolm. “But now it’s a tradition, I guess. Ours is especially good though. It’s better than the ones in all the surrounding villages.”

  As we entered the building there was a little reception committee of three or four men lined up to greet us. They too were dressed informally but most were wearing neatly ironed collared shirts, which made them slightly resemble kids who’d been made to dress smartly by their mums for their birthday parties. At the head of this group was Rene the mayor. I felt myself gulp. Just how much had my behaviour offended him the previous day?

  I approached him cautiously, and to my immense relief he greeted me warmly with a vigorous handshake and ushered me on to several others who did the same. Perhaps he liked jokes about shagging bulls after all. He even went as far as to pat me on the back before pointing me in the direction of a huge table full of bottles, behind which three young ladies stood in anticipation.

  “Aperitif?” one of them asked.

  “Oui, merci ,” I replied. “Un Ricard.”

  I’m not quite sure why I ordered a Ricard, it’s an aniseed drink a bit like Greek ouzo and I don’t even like it very much, but everyone around me seemed to have one, so rather spinelessly I bowed to peer pressure.

  I turned, large glass of white poison in my hand, and surveyed the room. It was short on people since we were evidently some of the first to arrive. The decor was bordering on non-existent. A red polished floor glistened, over which two long lines of tables had been set in preparation for the meal. Behind them was a pair of huge sliding doors opening onto a patio with the now routine splendid views of the surrounding beauty. The walls had been left undecorated—just the unplastered building blocks, grey and rather austere. Behind the table of drinks there was a large elevated stage, at the back of which was a huge mural of a Caribbean scene—a beautiful bay surrounded by palm trees. Later I was to learn that this was a survivor from the first event that ever took place here, the wedding of a local couple who’d no doubt booked their honeymoon in this far-off beauty spot. Now, fifteen years on, it still survived as the only bit of decoration in the building, no doubt destined for at least another decade as the village’s meagre nod to ornamentation.

  Soon there was a flurry of activity accompanying a glut of new arrivals. Just how much the French like kissing now became abundantly clear. Everyone was at it. There was a flurry of ‘double pecks’ landing on every available cheek—well, every available cheek above the waist. Soon the hall was a noisy place, as friends and neighbours began to catch up with the latest news and gossip. The place bustled. White hair, thinning hair, brunette mops of tousled hair and little girls’ pigtails all took their turns in occasionally bobbing above or in between the sea of bodies. It seemed like every hairdo that had ever adorned a hairdresser’s window was on show, maybe because this wasn’t just a glimpse of a rural community, but a snapshot of one that had undergone a steady settlement by the odd professional, or Parisian, or, more recently, Brit. Each, of course, with their own peculiar approach to styling their locks.

  In no time I too was thrust into a whirlwind of introductions, largely orchestrated by Malcolm and Anne, but also by my new friend the mayor, who evidently approved of transhumance -avoiding winos. Along with every new name came an explanation of who everyone was, what they did and where they lived, and soon my mind was reeling from all this new information. I was relieved when we were called to the table.

  “Where do we sit?” I quickly called out to Malcolm.

  “Anywhere you like,” he hastily replied, before being grabbed by a burly man with a broad bushy moustache. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?” he said, adding over his shoulder as he was led away to the far end of one of the tables, “Just sit anywhere.”

  “Of course.”

  The words momentarily echoed in my head: “Just sit anywhere.” Suddenly it felt like I was boarding the plane that had brought me here—one of the budget flights that had long since dispensed with anything as passe as a seat number. It’s preferable, it seems, to have an initial scrum amongst the passengers who are desperate to have the best choice of the almost identical seats. It also works very well for the sloths like me who amble onto the plane last of all, having relaxed and read during the twenty minutes that it’s taken the seat enthusiasts to board. The sloth figure can then choose whose flight to spoil by selecting a victim and sitting next to them, just when they thought they were going to have the entire journey blessed with lots of elbow room and air space. Sometimes you can hear their sigh of disappointment as you lower yourself into the adjacent seat. Oh, the joy of it all.

  Just as I was surveying the steadily filling tables and deciding whose elbow room I might hamper here, I felt a tap on my back.

  “Hello, I’m Mary,” said a voice, and I turned to see a lady smiling at me. She looked positively Irish, I thought.

  “I’m from Ireland,” she continued.

  God, I was good. There was something about how white she was. She was Irish white.

  “Hello, I’m Tony.”

  “Yes, I know. You’ve met my son.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, come and sit over here.”

  And with those words, the short-lived dilemma of where to sit was over.

  As we sat down, the dark-haired and sixty-something Mary explained in her gentle Irish brogue that she lived for half of the year in the house two down from where I was about to move. She was a widow who now supported herself by playing the piano in a hotel in nearby Lourdes, mostly for Irish pilgrims who liked a bit of a sing-song after a hard day’s mass and genuflection.

  “I play the piano too,” I said enthusiastically. “In fact, one of the reasons for buying the house here is so that I can dedicate myself to practising it.”

  “Oh I wish you luck with that. My practising days are long gone.”

  “You said that I’ve met your son?”

  “Yes, at the Albert Hall in London.”

  A couple of years previously I’d been invited to do an opening set of stand-up comedy for the Corrs at their London concert in aid of the Prince’s Trust. It had been the largest audience I had ever played to, and I had been most relieved that the audience had found me amusing. Dying a death in front of three thousand people might have been too much for a performer’s fragile ego to bear
. So whilst the Corrs were doing their bit, I watched from the side of the stage and celebrated my ‘success’ by drinking some lovely wine. It kept flowing throughout the Corrs’ performance and continued to flow freely at the after-show party I happily attended, secretly hoping to meet and end up snogging one of the band’s three beautiful sisters. Needless to say, I didn’t. Instead I spoke nonsense to a lot of considerably less pretty blokes, one of whom happened to be Mary’s son, who it turns out plays guitar in the Corrs backing band.

  “I’m afraid I have absolutely no recollection of meeting him,” I said. “I was far too pissed.”

  Mary gave the traditional Irish response to this, and looked impressed.

  “Never mind—you’ll meet again soon, I’m sure.”

  “Bonjour, monsieur, vous etes le nouveau Anglais, n’est-ce pas?”

  I looked up to see a lady in her late sixties or early seventies, beaming broadly from ear to ear. I stood up to greet her, which was enough in itself to cause her to shriek with delight. I absolutely towered over her.

  “Je suis Tony” I said, looking down on her as politely as I could.

  “Et moi je suis Odette”

  Odette chatted away to me merrily, almost as if we were long-lost friends. Malcolm and Anne had told her about me, she said. They’d said I was very nice. Any friend of theirs was a friend of hers, she added. Did I have any children? No? Odette shook her head. She, as she proudly pointed out, was a great grandmother. To a man in his forties who had yet to father a single child, this was an impressive feat. I knew there wasn’t much to do in the evenings around here but I hadn’t realised that French television was quite so bad.

  Then it occurred to me. Maybe this was one of the reasons why I was still single. I had too much to do. People in these parts get married young. Why? Because there’s nothing else to do. It simply cannot be that God looks particularly kindly upon French villages and conveniently puts all their soulmates in the same area. No—far more likely that people got married out of boredom. Could it be that I just hadn’t been bored enough in my life so far?

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned to see a pretty blonde girl with her hands full of empty carafes of wine. One of the wait-ressing volunteer force.

  “Porc ou poulet?” she asked.

  Pork or chicken? Was this a question about my preference for the main course or the opening gambit of a traditional local word game? Either way, I got the answer wrong.

  “Avez-vous quelque chose sans viande?”

  The girl looked at me like I was utterly mad. Had she heard me correctly? Was I really asking if they had anything without meat?

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “Avez-vous quelque chose sans viande?” I repeated.

  The girl tipped her head to one side and gave me a moment to demonstrate that I’d been joking. France is not a great place for the non-meat eater. Years before I’d been on holiday here with friends, one of whom was a vegetarian. When we’d asked if they had anything without meat, the waiter had replied, “Is ham OK?”

  “Porc ou poulet?” the waitress asked again, this time with a hint of impatience.

  I felt the presence of the French couple to my left, and the long table of villagers who stretched beyond them, all of whom seemed now to be eyeing me with suspicion.

  I am a man of some considerable principle. A couple of years back, whilst attempting to win the affections of a girl who was a vegetarian, I had renounced meat. My reasons had been two-fold. Firstly, I was sick and tired of the way animals were kept cooped up in a factory environment just so that we could eat cheap meat, and, secondly, I wanted to impress the girl in question. I will leave you to decide which of these two issues contributed most to my decision.

  To my credit, long after the girl and I had split up, I continued to shun the meat option, but I was now in a difficult position as I found myself under considerable pressure to opt for either porc or poulet. How odd did I want my new neighbours to think me? I’d already turned up on my own without a wife or any sign of a woman in tow. What would they think if I now added to that the fact that I didn’t eat meat? Surely I’d just get sent to Rheims, or wherever the French equivalent of Coventry is. No, I didn’t want that—and besides, hadn’t I only the previous day seen just how well the cows were cared for around here?VIP treatment. Personal escorts to mountain pastures. And then there were all those chickens I’d seen outside farm buildings wandering aimlessly about in the roads. These weren’t factory chickens, these were happy, proud, fulfilled little creatures, as ready to face their destiny as any living thing could be. A destiny that would involve being eaten by me, in about five minutes’ time.

  “Poulet” said the deeply principled one, as the young waitress smiled back politely.

  Actually it wasn’t just chickens who would be at the business end of my newfound philosophy. My hosts provided a menu that made me feel like some kind of born-again carnivore. After a slightly odd starter of peach stuffed with tuna, we were brought Bayonne ham and bread followed by venison stew and potatoes. Forgetting about my previous order for chicken, I assumed that this was the main course and wolfed down two helpings. Then the chicken arrived. Huge portions, again served with potatoes. I was already stuffed, but once again I felt the heavy force of peer pressure and bowed to it immediately. My stomach began to swell. A lettuce salad arrived next, followed by cheese and yet more bread. Then it was the turn of a vast tranche of strawberry tart, to be washed down with coffee and Armagnac. I undid the button at the top of my trousers and sat back in my chair. I needed to rest from what had seemed like some sort of new Olympic event. The Food Marathon or the 1500-metre Gluttony.

  Fuelled by the aperitifs, the free-flowing wine and the brandy, many of the villagers were now on their feet, mixing and mingling. I noted with some apprehension that Rene was having a long chat with Jean-Claude. I wanted to go and join them to make sure that the conversation didn’t turn to the subject of my predilection for corks, but I was too bloated to move. When it came to socialising I would have to wait for people to come to me. And come to me they did. Soon I was introduced to Roger, a jovial fellow of about fifty with just the most infectious giggle. He swept from person to person, shaking hands, chuckling and generally demonstrating why the French had come up with the word ‘bonhomie’. Then there was Serges, a vast ruddy-complexioned man of Roger’s age who sported a broad, bulging moustache and who bellowed incomprehensibly at me in an extremely good-humoured manner. His mate Alain (also a big bloke but not so well endowed on the moustache front) came and joined in with him, laughing, joking and generally doing a lot of slapping me on the back. This backslapping was being administered a tad too heavy-handedly and it was beginning to hurt a bit, as well as making me feel slightly nauseous. I didn’t let on though, and grinned incessantly.↓

  ≡ It was probably a smarmy grin—a bit like the one Tony Blair does when an interviewer has him in a bit of a corner.

  “Come and meet Andre,” said Malcolm, who was looking a little the worse for wear himself. “He’s one of the great village characters.”

  I struggled, pensioner-like, from my chair and followed Malcolm, who gave me a brief character sketch of Andre as we crossed the hall.

  “He’s about seventy-five and he’s lived in the village all his life. The trouble is, he can be quite difficult to understand because he has a strong local accent, and it’s made even worse by the fact that he quite often lapses into the Gascon dialect of Occitan.”

  “Ah yes,” I said. “The Gascon dialect of Occitan. My grasp of that is a little rusty, partly because I never really paid too much attention to it at school.”

  “It’s a kind of hybrid of French, Spanish and Andalucian.”

  I knew more about this than I was letting on to Malcolm, having read about it only days before. Occitan had never been officially accorded the status of a distinct language but it was a product of the many centuries before the eventual establishment of Spain and France, when every valley
was like a mini-republic with its own patois. Andre’s use of the language proved that he was a descendant of an era when someone who travelled more than twenty miles was considered an adventurer.

  “Andre has never married,” said Malcolm. “And he’s got some great stories of his childhood when the Nazis had occupied the area.”

  Malcolm had taken on a new role. He was becoming to me a little like a Greek chorus is to the audience, filling me in on all the significant details that weren’t immediately obvious from the action. With regard to Andre, in only a couple of minutes he had well and truly whetted my appetite. I couldn’t wait to meet this old man.

  Andre was not a disappointment. We found him chatting to another elderly man who quickly moved off when we arrived. Andre was a small, balding man with an open face, grey moustache and unfeasibly white scalp. Malcolm later told me that this was because the only time he removed his beret was when he came to the village events. The rest of the time his monastic bald pate was spared any exposure to the elements or to the rest of the world. But for now, the contrast between sun-soaked deep-tan face and Persil snow-white skull was simply magnificent. It was strange too that I should meet Andre on the only day of the year when he looked like this. The next time our paths crossed I might struggle to recognise him.

  We began chatting and at first his accent seemed impenetrable, but slowly I began to pick out more and more of what he was saying. It was small talk at first, discussing the meal, where I was going to live and how nice it was to have mountains all around us. Then, in something of a stylish non sequitur, I asked him what he remembered of life here under the German invasion. To his credit, Andre reacted as if this had been the natural topic to move onto after having just covered the loveliness of the mountains. He told me that he had been thirteen when it had all happened but that he could remember it as if it was yesterday. I said that I would love to come round to see him and hear some of these stories and he replied that I was most welcome but that he didn’t have any milk in. This rather threw me. I know that I’d kicked off the stylish non sequiturs, but I hadn’t expected him to follow suit with such aplomb. Or perhaps I’d misunderstood.